


John and Mary Die

by redscudery



Series: Indescribable [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Pining, Pregnancy, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:53:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, they don't die. Exactly.</p><p>“lf vou think this is all too bourgeois, make John a revolutionary and Mary a<br/>counterespionage agent and see how far that gets you” -Margaret Atwood, “Happy Endings”</p>
            </blockquote>





	John and Mary Die

When Sherlock says “Sherlock is a girl’s name”, he means “I love you.”

When John says “It’s not”, he means “You fucker.”

When he says “We’re not naming our daughter after you”, he means “We’re not naming our daughter after you”.

He also means “I know you love me but I’m too angry to believe you.”

He also means “It’s too late for you to love me.” Or he thinks he does.

Sherlock just means “I love you.”

Things change.

In John and Mary’s flat, the tension ebbs and flows. Mostly it flows. As she gets more and more pregnant,  John’s wife is having trouble holding on to Mary Watson. Her accent slips. Her movements become more rapid as she gets larger.

She has been used to  moving fast, to cutting ties, to leaving nothing behind. And though now she is still in control over her body, that control is fading. Soon, she knows, she will have something that either must be left behind or carried, and counting the cost of that is chipping away at who she has to be.

John, who has followed pregnancies, although not many, knows that women get angry in the third trimester, a complex cocktail of expectations, hormones, physical and emotional discomfort. He steps back, is understanding, loving. He can see that Mary is fighting something, and he’s smart enough to guess it’s more than just the pregnancy. He is tender, kind; he loves her firmly but gently, handling her rounded body with care and skill.

She wants to love it but doesn’t, not really. He is not available for comment.

One Monday she goes out and doesn’t come home until after dinner, ignoring John’s increasingly frantic texts. Two days later, she doesn’t return until just after bedtime; more frantic texts. Both times she apologises profusely, says her phone was dead, blames pregnancy brain.

John doesn’t buy it. When he wakes up one Sunday three weeks later and she’s not there, he realizes what she’s doing.

_We need to talk._

_Be home soon. Couldn’t sleep._

_We still need to talk._

_Ok._

She doesn’t come in until after lunch.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“That’s the hell of it, John. I know you know.”

“Then why the bloody fuck do you do it?”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“What do you want, Mary? Tell me what you want.”

And when she can’t answer him, because the answer is impossible, the silence that stretches over the flat is poisonous.

They make it up, but ultimately they can’t make it up. Mary is too used to cutting her losses. John can’t say what he wants. He doesn’t even know what he wants.

He comes home one day to find her things gone. Not much, but then she didn’t have much. She wasn’t one to collect things, stuff.

When Mycroft calls him twelve hours later to see if he wants a trace put on her, John says yes mechanically. Mycroft never calls back to see if he wants the information. John doesn’t call either. He knows that it’s there when he needs it.

Annulment papers appear in the flat. John has no idea why annulment rather than divorce. He doesn’t sign them.

He takes time off. He’s worried he’ll accidentally kill someone at the clinic, the way he feels.

Time to rest, he thinks, time to get some perspective. He’ll play rugby and maybe go back to therapy. Clearly, he needs it. He calls Lestrade and Mike; they go for pints.

When he finally signs the papers, six weeks into his leave of absence, it’s because he can’t not. He’s alone, alone in this oddly lit flat, alone, and if he hasn’t gone back to therapy it’s because he knows what any good therapist would say.

Trust issues. With reason.

Post-traumatic stress. With reason.

Anger issues. With reason.

Repressed homosexual feelings. They wouldn’t say that anymore; it’s fallen out of favour as a diagnosis.

With reason.

And, with reason.

He doesn’t return the papers to Mycroft because he knows he doesn’t need to. When they disappear from his flat, he spends the day thinking about getting up, getting dressed, and going for a walk, but all he does is sit on the bed and drink tea.

The text from Sherlock is not exactly a coincidence.

_Come home. SH_

John doesn’t think about what it means. If he did, he’d figure it out.

He’s not ready to figure anything out.


End file.
